The Chop Shop Read online

  He placed his notepad on the desk. Old coffee stains and undisturbed layers of dust coated the wood. A fan spun overhead, thumping in time with the whine of computer drives. Harsh rays of red neon light cut through the window blinds. He spun the trackball and woke the computer from its slumber, navigating the crude user interface with a strange feeling of aggression.

  Richard chewed off a chunk of finger nail, watching over his shoulder as he tapped the name into the search box. A single result flashed up.

  “A bit of luck at long last, eh?” Michael said. He hit the print screen button and printed out a copy from the old laserjet at the end of the aisle.

  “Where is this place?”

  “Madley road. You familiar with it?”

  Richard glanced at his watch and frowned. “Don't think so. I hope the traffic is better now. Maybe we can get lunch from the place.”

  They went back downstairs. The receptionist gave them both a venomous look as they passed by. Michael felt his muscles tensing. He pushed through the inner set of security doors, hoping the contractors wouldn't see him. They did, and a barely audible insult followed them.

  Chapter 5.

  Richard parked across the road from the bakery. There was an unfinished hole in the plate above, and Michael could see bleak, grey skies above them. The clouds drifted by as though the world was on fast-forward.

  “I want to take the lead on this one; I'm feeling like a third wheel, and I want to get some action,” Richard said.

  “You know what we need out of them?”

  “Of course.”

  The shop was called Johnson's Family Bakers, announced in blue letters above the entrance. They stepped inside, found the floor clean and the walls free of mould. The air was warm, and an aroma of freshly cooked bread hung in the air. Several shelves carried a sparse selection of bread, wrapped sandwiches, cakes and fruit drinks labelled with felt pens and white stickers.

  Two teenage girls in hair nets and aprons stood behind the counter and tills. They had a wide-eyed innocence about them, and Michael noted the family resemblance.

  “Can I help you?” the one on the right said. Her younger sister went into the back room.

  Michael plucked a tuna mayonnaise sandwich from the shelf, and Richard help up his identity card for the girl to see. She swallowed the lump in her throat and glanced over her shoulder. No response came.

  He placed the tuna sandwich on the counter.

  “We're detectives from Richmond station,” Richard said.

  Her face somehow managed to turn paler. She looked again for her sister. “I'm really sorry, sir. We normally keep a small collection for people such as yourselves, but another police unit took it all on Monday, and it's hard enough staying in business as it is. Would you accept free food instead? Please? My father works very hard.”

  Michael exchanged a glance with Richard. He heard the approach of footsteps, and the girl's sister returned with their father, a tall man with grey hair and a narrow face.

  “I told them what you said, Dad,” she said. Her father put a protective hand on her shoulder.

  “I'm sorry you're getting turned over by a police unit. We can look into it if you give us further details, but as it happens, my colleague and I were hoping you might be able to assist us with another matter,” Richard said.

  The baker narrowed his eyes. “That depends with what you're after. I make a point of not getting involved in other people's business. We keep our heads down; it's safer that way.”

  “Just a few questions, that's all. Do you get many customers here?”

  Michael glanced up at the bulbous camera watching them from the corner of the ceiling. “Would you mind,” he said to the elder girl,” if took a look out the back there?”

  She glanced at her father, who nodded slowly.

  “This way,” the girl said.

  Michael followed after her. He heard Richard resume his questioning, sometimes punctuated by a brief word from the baker, but never much more than a yes or a no. They passed a stack of blue bread trays stacked on top of each other, as well as the ovens and two counters for preparing food. A whiff of cleaning chemicals crept up his nostrils.

  “Do you live above here?” he said, gesturing to a staircase partially hidden behind the door and its pane of frosted glass.

  She nodded.

  “I noticed you had a security camera back there. Does it work? I'd like to get a copy of its storage drive, if that's okay with you.”

  The girl hesitated for a moment, before producing a set of keys from her pocket to unlock the door. They went up the stairs, and Michael felt the wood creaking under his feet. She unlocked a second door at the top of the staircase. It was dark and murky inside the flat, lit only by a few traces of light poking through holes in the curtains.

  She tugged on a piece of string. A neon tube bathed the room in cold, blue light. Michael saw a sofa made up as a bed and cardboard boxes filled with old possessions. The kitchen was just another corner of the lounge with cooking appliances and a fridge.

  A laptop rested on the table beside him, lights flashing with hard drive activity. An assortment of cables ran from several sockets and into a hole in the wall. The girl traced a finger over the track pad.

  “Can you go back to yesterday?”

  She sat down at the table, shadows beginning to envelope her as she moved away from the blue light. She opened a fresh window and began to rewind the images. It sped up, faster and faster, seconds passing on the time stamp, minutes and then finally hours. “Who are you after? It's somebody in particular, isn't it?”

  “I don't have a lot to go on. I know they bought a tuna and mayonnaise sandwich from here yesterday, but beyond that, nothing.”

  She paused the video for a moment. “We get enough customers to keep us afloat, but not much more than that. I know the man you want. He bought half our stock in one go, and I've never seen that happen before. My dad won't like me giving this to you, though; he thinks it'll bring trouble down on our heads.”

  “You're already getting money extorted from you by policemen. I can't make promises or guarantees, but we'll look into it for you and see what we can do. You're practically on the bread line already, and it wouldn't take much more to tip you over the edge.”

  The girl hesitated.

  “This guy we're after, we think he was operating in conjunction with the man who staged the hit up on the plate. Did you hear about it on the radio or television?”

  She rewound the pictures until early morning the previous day, just after seven o'clock. The images were fuzzy, but clear enough that he could see the man wearing glasses and a blue, plastic rain jacket. He leaned in closer to look over the girl's shoulder, squinting as he tried to make out the facial features. They were a blur of pixels.

  “Sorry, the camera isn't very good. My dad got it ages ago. The policemen don't even care; they know it can't provide enough evidence against them. “

  Michael pulled a memory stick from his jacket pocket and plugged it into the laptop. “Can you dump that footage on there, please? Put the police unit on there as well. There's enough space on the stick for all of it.”

  She copied the files. “If the police team find out somebody is investigating them, they'll come back for us. That's what they told my dad. They said we'll wish we never said a word, because paying them was better than what would happen if we didn't.”

  The girl spoke the words in a droll monotone, as though she had emotionally detached herself from it all. Perhaps it was for the best.

  “I understand. I'll see what I can do, and I'll make sure it doesn't come back and bite you. People like them will just keep on pushing you for a bigger cut whenever they can. You know how they operate.”

  She nodded. “Thanks.”

  They went back downstairs. Richard was still talking to the baker.

  “Get what you needed?” Michael said.

  Richard nodded. They bought lunch from the shop and returned to the car.
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  “I didn't get what I needed,” he said when they were seated. “I know they're scared, but that guy wouldn't give anything up. His memory was so bad he could pass for somebody with brain damage.”

  Michael held up the memory stick for him to see. “Got pictures from that security camera. The quality isn't so good, though, and I don't know what we can do with it. I think we just ran into a dead end.”

  “The guy told me that camera was a fake.”

  “Yes, well. Like you said, he must have a memory problem. I'll show you the pictures when we get back to the station, but it's not going to help much. Maybe if we had access to proper equipment and facilities.”

  They ate their food and tossed the litter out the window.

  “Too bad,” Richard said. “I've got to say, though, I'm kind of relieved about it. We can go back to investigating some guy offing his wife, because he thought she was cheating, or somebody putting petrol through a letter box to get rid of their rival drug dealer.”

  An armoured coach waited inside the station's perimeter wall, with metal bars covering the windows. A squad of Assurer police officers stood guard around the vehicle. Their infantry fighting vehicle was parked off to the side, white paint blackened and charred with the splash of a petrol bomb.

  “What's going on?” Michael said.

  One of the policemen turned. “We're emptying the cells down below of stock. Fill 'em up, ship 'em out; you know how it goes. It's a never ending stream of shit heads on a conveyor belt to Assurer tribunals.”

  “Right,” said another. “I give it two weeks before the livestock pens are full of wasters again.”

  The rattle of chains drew Michael's attention. Prisoners marched chained to the man in front and behind them, dressed in orange boiler suits.

  “You hear that, you bunch of coke heads? You're going to rot north of the wall. Enjoy your slow and painful deaths from radiation poisoning.”

  “Fuck you,” one of the prisoners muttered.

  “No thanks, I've got a wife. Enjoy your time with your cell mate. Prico always love more offenders for their labour camps.”

  Michael and Richard went inside. The office was empty of everyone except Archibald. Michael slumped in his seat, letting his head rest against the worn leather, as he waited for the computer to power up.

  “Where is everybody?”

  Archibald shrugged. “I got called out to half a dozen bodies decomposing in a tunnel today. Total waste of time; they were too far gone to get anything of worth. Spent an hour signing off for them to be shipped to a disposal furnace.”

  Archibald signed, then, resting his chin on a hand. “I was doing this work before the collapse, you know. We had databases, forensics, and all kinds of fancy technology. Couldn't win them all, but you still nailed somebody now and then. Now it feels like we just go through the motions for the sake of it.”

  “Nostalgia, isn't it great?” Richard said.

  “Michael plugged the memory stick into his computer. “Okay, take a look. You interested, Archibald?”

  Archibald hesitated. Finally he relented and rose from his seat. “Okay, I'll bite.”

  Michael opened some of the images.

  “Jesus,” Richard said, burying his face in a hand. “We went all the way for those? What the fuck are we going to do now?”

  Archibald cracked a wry smile. “Get a new case. One you might actually be able to solve.”

  “Yeah, like those rotting corpses? How did that one work out for you, Archie?” Richard said. “Hey, you know what, Michael? Don't sweat. I'll talk to Harris, and he'll shake the pillars of heaven. The skies will fall and by tomorrow we'll have another lead. Trust me. Log everything we've done, file the reports and then go home and get yourself a pint. Tomorrow, I guarantee something good will happen.”

  Archibald chuckled, as Richard hurried outside.

  “Maybe he's full of shit, but at least he put a smile on your face. Bad day, I guess?”

  The chuckle faded, but Archibald was still grinning. He sat back down with another sigh. “Yeah, that's one way of looking at it. I wouldn't mind getting out of this job, but I've been doing it for so long now I don't think I could do anything else. Got nothing to retire on, either. That's if they don't just shut us down full stop.

  “I thought living in England would be better than Nigeria. Then the war happened and suddenly it feels like the roles have been reversed.”

  “They can look forward to a world of trouble if they do that. Even more trouble than we already have. You ever seen a fire team solve a crime? They cruise around in their fighting vehicles and get out when they can be arsed. People don't like it; you've seen them. Sooner or later these demonstrations are going to stop being local nuisances. People are at the wall.”

  Archibald gave a weary nod. “Guess so.”

  Michael flicked through images of the police squad collecting payment from the bakery. He sat there for five minutes, wondering in the green glow of the monitor what he could do about it. He could inquire, write letters, investigate, but sooner or later it would always come back to haunt the bakery.

  He typed up his reports and filled out the daily log on the word processor, and then sent it to the laser printer. Sheets of paper spilled into the wire tray.

  Archibald's watch began to beep. He grinned to himself and turned the alarm off.

  “Home time?” Michael said.

  “Not quite; I'm taking the wife and kids for dinner. I've been looking forward to it all week. There's a commercial district adjacent to one of the gated communities. Lots of security, very safe, and the perfect place to have Chinese. The food is cooked to perfection. What about you? Wife, kids, family?”

  Michael shook his head. He collected the printouts together and tapped them on the table to align the edges. “I've got a sister down in Cornwall, but we don't talk. We haven't spoken since the war. She's still pissed because my father bankrupted the entire family to pay for surgeons to stitch me back together when they dragged my sorry arse back from the war. My dad was a good guy, but my sister wouldn't agree, though.”

  “Well, I've had my share of family trouble in the past. Don't leave it too late if you ever want to fix things up. You only get one chance. I've got to get moving; the next shift will be coming in soon.”

  Archibald reached across the table and shook his hand. “It's good to have you on the team. We could really use another guy with some experience. Sometimes it feels like I'm the only one keeping things running around here. See you later.”

  Michael waited until the other man had shut the door, and then searched the office for a stapler. A fresh influx of voices sounded from the corridor outside, and he hesitated for a moment, just listening to it all. He pressed down and forced a staple through the papers.

  Footsteps passed by as he moved to the window and pulled the blinds apart to look down on the street below. Searchlights swept back and forth on one of the city pillars in the distance. He didn't want to go home tonight, but there was nowhere else to go.

  Michael gathered his stuff and travelled up a floor to administration. The room was nearly empty, save for a man and a woman, each seated at their desks and muttering on the phones. He left the reports in Samantha's intake tray.

  Outside in the car park, the air was chilly and the wind strong. Cold crept down the back of his neck, and his tie flapped violently. He fumbled with his car keys, watching the place empty car by car as though the world was leaving him behind.

  One of the vehicles exploded. He fell down, as car alarms shrieked. The blast forced the doors off at the hinges, and orange fire lashed out from the vehicle, dancing, flickering, sometimes retreating enough to reveal the charred body slumped against the steering wheel.

  His nostrils twitched at the smell of burning petrol. People ran from the building and there was a ringing in his ears, growing stronger with every beat of his heart. He stood up, shaking, and stepped away from the fire. People gathered by the front doors, watching the vehicle
burn with mouths agape.

  “Are you hurt?” Samantha said?

  He shook his head and moved behind the cover of a plastic tree. Samantha looked away from the carnage. Her face turned pale as a trail of blood leaked from her left nostril.

  “Your nose is bleeding,” he said.

  Samantha pulled a tissue from her pocket, but she was too slow to stop a drop of blood staining her white shirt; it left a long, blotted line from collar to breast.

  “What the hell is going on? I knew her, she worked the desk in front of me. Why would somebody blow her up?”

  His mind flashed back to the memory of his old station disappearing in an explosion. “I don't know. Somebody will have to find out. There's cameras up there trained on the car park all day, every day. Either that car came in here rigged, or somebody planted the bomb in full view.”

  “I have to tell her family.”

  She wandered off in a daze, head bowed, one hand clutching her brow. He watched her go, and then looked down at his trembling hand; the tremble ran the length of his arm and down his entire body.

  Michael went back to his car and silenced the alarm. He got down on the ground, produced his pocket torch and slid underneath the vehicle. He flashed the light about. Nothing. His mind raced, breathing becoming shallower.

  A pair of feet clad in combat boots stopped by his legs. “You okay?” the man said.

  Michael crawled out into the open. The policeman was dressed in full body armour and combat gear. He raised the visor on his helmet. “Hey, I asked if you were you okay.”

  He stood up. “I'm fine. You've got tactical mirrors in the armoury, right? For checking corners?”

  “Yeah, we've got them.”

  “You might want to start handing them out. People will need to check underneath their cars.”

  The policeman looked over his shoulder at the burning wreck.

  Chapter 6.

  Michael drove to Croydon. Concrete buildings rose up all around him, some still scorched and ruined from the war. The others were empty now the workers had gone home for the night. Handfuls of people milled about the streets beneath flashing lights and advertisement displays.